I know this space, and in that knowing, a creature was born, strange and shining. It is yours and it is not yours. It is mine and not mine.
I know these people, the ones who have come and will come, the ones who seek to remember.
You will not find another so easily, for the bow I wield was shaped by violence, cut from the tree, carved deep with courage, survival, longing, seeking, beauty. I have always been the first to raise my hand, the firstborn, first to fail, first to leap toward faith. You will not be able to pick it up, this now, for it was made for my hand alone. Yours is waiting, still.
I know these women. We became girls again, building forts, hiding, finding, cutting trails through the wilds, through our shared heartbreak, picking berries, laughing, crying.
I know this lovely thing which moves and grows, foraging on the unknown. This thing, you do not understand, but there is no need for you to understand, stop trying.
You are the farmer’s hand, worn by time and practice. You bring water, decide where to prune and let wither; decide where to graft and where to plant the next crop.
Do not forget. This is a place of remembering. You need not understand it to feed it, to make way for it, to love it as we do.  Do not dismiss it. It will not be diminished by disbelief.
You need not understand to see it’s power and its purpose.